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A Short Tale of Oaths, Farewells, Life After Magic, Potential Problems, and Blood
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The mortal woman inspected the healing stab wound on Nuada's shoulder with gentle fingers. When the Elf didn't hiss or writhe or even grow tense, she allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Her healing salve and the other doctoring she'd given the stubborn prince were finally working. Mortal medicine worked on the Fayre after all – up to a point. Blue eyes ran along the stitched wound that looked so disturbingly like a ravenous mouth trying and failing to rip open the warrior's skin. But there were no xanthous lines or discolored flesh, no foul smell or pus. The flesh around the wound was cool and dry to the touch, as well. And now that the infection was gone, the wound itself was finally healing up. The same for his other injuries. After all this time, he'd also recovered from the iron fatigue and the poison from the snake bite, thanks to the tisanes she often brewed for him, as well. A few more days of more mundane care and Elven healing, combined with the magic of the sanctuary, and Nuada would be as good as new.
She told him so.
"What did you say?" Nuada asked softly, glancing over at Dylan's barely-healing face.
After nearly three full months beneath the surface of New York City, hidden away in the fantastical subway tunnel sanctuary, the Elf prince no longer felt the sickening sensation in the very pit of his belly when he looked into the mortal woman's troubled, nearly-healed face. He no longer found himself wanting to shout at her or shake her, to draw his sword and spear her through her empty human heart. Sometimes, when something she said struck him as amusing, he even managed to smile a little, though he never let her see that. He even managed to call her by name instead of merely "human" or "woman."
It's progress, the rather perceptive Dylan admitted. No more veiled death threats or angsty glares, at least, thank goodness. That was starting to get a little old.
And she knew she was making progress as well. Though the choking fear of discovery, of attack, of yet another vicious rape, burned in her stomach nearly constantly when she was alone, the human could admit that around Nuada, she actually felt safe. He had made it clear that despite his loathing for humanity, as long as he still breathed and she remained in this sanctuary with him, he would keep her safe from any and all who would even think about hurting her. The nearly-healed mortal woman had to admit that knowing she had a powerful Elven warrior for a bodyguard made her feel secure.
But that still didn't stop the nightmares... or the growing dread, the fear which loomed day after day, that eventually she would have to leave this place and go back out into the world of men and monsters again.
"I said," Dylan replied, revealing none of that dread, "that your wounds are doing much, much better, Your Highness. The infection is completely gone. The iron-fatigue is gone, too. You've fully recovered from the dipsa venom. At this rate, your wounds should be completely closed in four or five days. A week at the most."
"Good," the blond Elf replied absently, staring off into space. "That is well." His vacant jewel eyes clouded over, obscuring the thoughts behind them. He tapped the wooden chair arm with his fingers while he thought, pursing his lips, barely moving save for the even rise and fall of his bare chest.
Blushing when she realized she'd been staring at him for almost a full minute at this point, Dylan hastily put away her things, avoiding with savage determination even the remotest chance of looking anywhere near the vicinity of his face. She didn't want to think about what in the world could make Nuada look that way. The human had an irritating and possibly all too correct idea that he was considering when she would finally be able to vacate the prince's supernatural sanctuary.
"There is something we must speak of," Nuada said suddenly after the silence had stretched near to the breaking point.
Dylan's muscles coiled and tensed. Shivers crawled up her spine. She knew exactly what Nuada wanted to talk to her about. So she spoke first.
"I have to leave," she murmured softly, looking anywhere but at the blond Elven warrior. "Don't I? I have to go back to my own people. I'm not allowed to stay here any longer, am I, Your Highness?"
Nuada glanced at her before returning his brooding gaze to the – apparently – incredibly interesting, unadorned stone wall. After what seemed like a thousand small eternities but was probably in fact approximately ten minutes, the blond prince replied simply, "No, you are not."
Sharp Elf ears caught the shuddering, indrawn breath. His hackles stood on end, bristling. His eyes narrowed to slits of pale golden icebergs. Was she afraid of facing the outside world again? Was she truly a coward after all? The prince felt more than a little foolish in that he still attempted to ferret out ways that the human in his care could be dangerous or treacherous or anything less than he deemed she ought to be. As of yet, none of the theories that presented themselves to him held much water. And she had been here for nearly three moons. Surely she should have betrayed her true nature by now. Still... as her face drained of color and her eyes unfocused, a slice of alarm cut across his mind. Was she all right? Was she going to faint?
"Why?" She asked simply. Desperately. "Why must I go?"
The Elf gritted his teeth and stared resolutely at the ground. He could feel the waves of pure anguish rolling off of her, tiny darts biting into his skin. Such grief and fear would have choked a lesser Elf, would have forced him to give into her desire. Give in and let her infect his sanctuary further with her iron-laced blood and human stench. But he would not. Goosebumps rippled across his flesh in their own wave as he focused on her for the first time for more than ten seconds and glared molten bronze daggers at her.
Dylan did not flinch. That only served to infuriate him more, though he could not have said why. Did this mortal never behave the way humans ought? Why did she not fear him like the coward she should have been?
"You must go back to your own world," Nuada replied in a tight voice. His eyes had darkened to a furious bronze, he could feel it, yet the mortal did not so much as step back from him. "You are yourself nearly completely healed. Also, you have said that I am very nearly completely well. Therefore, the need for your services is past, and it is time for you to return to your own kind."
"They're not my kind," the brunette woman replied waspishly, without thinking. As soon as the acid in her voice splashed her awareness, Dylan cast an apologetic look towards the Elf prince, who merely allowed his mouth to shift into a smirk rather than a stormy scowl. She knew him well enough now to know that tone of voice was no longer enough to incite his wrath against her (usually). Three moons, and the short temper of a hormonal woman during three moontimes, had helped with that. And for some reason, he found her disgust with the stupidity and sin of the majority of the human race amusing.
"I do not wish to go," Dylan whispered. "Please, my prince... Nuada, I..."
"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Do not mortals often say such?" Nuada demanded sharply. "Don't waste your wishes on that which you can never attain. Such wishes will never be granted. And you will remember to use my title."
Dylan swallowed, then bowed her head. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness."
For a long time after that, neither of them spoke. Nuada brooded in his chair, chin propped on one fist. Dylan gathered her things together with trembling fingers and tears burning in the backs of her eyes. As she moved, she prayed.
Heavenly Father, she mumbled in her mind. I can't do this. I can't leave this place. I feel safe here. How can I leave? How can I go back out there and face everyone? For once, Dylan was grateful her parents had died in a bus accident after her graduation from medical school. They were the one entity she would not have to face when she finally made it home. What will John say? The girls? Petra? Peabody? And how will I go back to church? What if everyone stared at her when she went back? She couldn't stand having them stare at her. The mortal didn't want to think about what the people in her ward were saying about her disappearance. Probably worried out of their minds, but what about when they learned what had happened to her?
Except they won't, she reminded herself. They won't stare, because they know better. And they won't know what happened unless there was a trial and I had to testify and it made the papers, which won't happen because those guys are dead. Nuada killed them. And there was a flicker of unease, of disquiet. He had killed them. Without a trial, without a conviction, in the most horrible way. Why didn't she care? Why was she so easy with this man who could kill without remorse? Nuada killed them to protect me, she reminded herself. To protect us both. And they were guilty. I know it. He knew it. He protected me.
Oh, God... God, how can I leave Nuada? How can I leave the one person who makes me feel safe? Which made her feel like a chicken, not to mention rude. She knew Nuada didn't actually want her there. Only his strict code of honor had strong-armed him into letting her stay until she recovered. That and he needs me so he doesn't keel over dead, the human thought. The idea brought a flicker of a smile to her scarred mouth. Elf prince or not, he needs to learn to relax and not work so hard.
Dylan moved on to folding the clothes the Elf had given her. The prince had told her icily that she could keep them, since "they smell of human now." Probably expects me to hock them or something at a pawn shop somewhere. But she would never give up such beautiful clothes... unless, for whatever reason, she could no longer wear them and she donated them to Deseret Industries or Good Will. Or if one of the girls at her church needed dresses for a charity project.
The mortal woman realized she missed the youth service projects and church services. She missed her job. Missed helping young people solve their problems. Missed John, Peabody, Donovan. Anya and Joyce. Her sisters. Her friend, Peri. Ariel, her secretary. Even Kaye, her old boss from college who was still her good friend. Maybe... maybe she needed to leave. Maybe. She needed to start being useful to people again. Even though the thought made her sweat. Made her heart pound like a kettle drum. She'd already missed out on so much that had once been important in her life - celebrating her birthday with her twin; enjoying Christmas with her brother and the people from her church ward; chaperoning the New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day youth dances... so many things. Maybe it was time to leave the world of Faerie behind.
But she didn't want to....
After what seemed like hours of silence, Dylan ventured to glance up from the folded dresses at the Elf prince and murmur, "Your Highness?"
Silence.
No sound penetrated the rich, pregnant soundlessness in the magical chamber. Dylan shivered, eyes on Nuada. There was a violence brewing behind his eyes, electric hot, and at the sight of it her heart beat against her sternum, leaving cracks. Pain radiated like a spiral wave through her chest as the mortal stared at her immortal companion. His pitch-black lips pursed in thought, brow furrowed, Dylan had no idea what he was thinking, or whether the blond warrior was even thinking about her. The resolution to be strong, to be all right with the decision to leave, dissolved and slipped away from her like water.
After perhaps fifteen minutes, the human moved to get up, to go somewhere else – maybe that lovely bathtub, one last time; anywhere, as long as she didn't have to see the prince brooding like that – when Nuada caught her arm in one hand. Her wide blue eyes found him and stared. Did he hear the way her heart screamed in her chest from racing so swiftly? Did he know that fear tingled over her skin like static electricity?
"What are you doing?" She quavered. Her mind screamed at her to run, but she couldn't. Not when he looked at her.
He caught and held her eyes, the amber gaze boring into her, practically burning her. The deep-set, entrancing gaze of a cobra staring at a mouse. There was so much hidden behind the glacial topaz stare that she couldn't seem to grasp. Was he hiding it from her? Or was it merely her nervousness at being forced – well, no one was forcing her, not really, but she very much wished she could stay within the walls of the sanctuary forever, stay with this man who she knew would protect her, until Hell froze over, until the world ended – into returning to the outside world of mortals?
Nuada had told her that her wounds might return, like the years passed by in a fairy tale for humans, their true age swooping down on them the moment their feet touched mortal soil. Just the thought of it made her heart pump harder in her chest. All that pain, all that screaming hot pain, the shock of it, all at once after being free of it... Her breathing hitched. She couldn't stop herself from bracing for that sick, nauseating agony, though none was to come just yet.
"I'm not surprised that you loathe life among the humans, one such as you," the Elf prince told her suddenly. He spoke harshly, gritting his teeth as if the words filled his mouth with a vile taste. Yet the words themselves were kind. Like that night when he'd confessed that he regretted being unable to reach her in time to stop her attack. "You are not like other humans. But you cannot remain among my kind. You belong in your world. We must go now."
The Elf pretended not to see when a tear rolled down Dylan's cheek. The sight filled him with a sharp, stabbing rage. How dare this mortal woman shed tears when he, the Silver Lance, had done so much for her? With a barely suppressed snarl, he turned away and donned his crimson shirt and black tunic. The human did not glance at him as she packed her large bag and clutched it to her chest. Her aversion to looking at him made that rage cut deeper. She acted as if he were a monster, instead of her rescuer. Her skittishness reminded him suddenly, sharply, of Nuala. Of the rift between them. The rage sliced through him like a knife of burning ice.
And yet... and yet.
Nuada waited patiently – almost – by the entryway to the safe haven for Dylan to gather her courage. Intellectually, the Elf supposed he could understand. The mortal had been horribly abused. Probably, she did not feel safe outside of the sanctuary. Perhaps she even worried that he would not fare too well without her care. In his mind, the prince understood all this.
But in his heart, he simply wanted the inconvenient human out of his sanctuary. Out of his life. This Dylan was a problem. He had incurred a debt. Well, it had been repaid, he felt. Now it was time for her to be gone from this place. Otherwise... Nuada did not know what would happen if she did not leave, and soon. There was simply a nameless sense of dread and danger looming somewhere out on the horizon, and it centered on his contact with the human woman.
Finally, the brunette woman strode over to him, trying to force herself to meet his icy, jeweled gaze. The act made it difficult for Nuada to keep his grim expression. Dylan trying to be brave reminded him of a fluffed-out kitten spitting at a large dog - pure bravado, nothing else.
They were shoulder to shoulder then, and Nuada did not have time to think about angry kittens or the mortal woman's resemblance to them. It was time.
The Elf laid his palm against the stone portal that led to the subterranean tunnels beyond. Voice as cold as he could make it, he told Dylan to do the same. When her trembling hand touched the strangely warm stone, Nuada reached out with his senses and found the guardian inside the stonework. The golem, an elemental of the earth with a deep sense of loyalty and a temper no mortal in their right mind would dare to spark, slowly awoke to Nuada's gentle touch. After all, the prince did not want to make the beast think they were under attack. Instead, he simply asked the golem if he would open the door and allow them to pass. Grumbly, sleepy acknowledgment made the corner of the blond warrior's mouth twitch.
As soon as both pairs of feet were on the cold concrete of the subway system and the door to the safe haven shut behind them, Dylan gave a startled cry and crumpled to the ground. Her head hit the pavement with a sharp CRACK! Nuada jerked toward her instinctively and had to fight his revulsion as blood began to darken the cream-colored dress the mortal wore. The nearly-healed cuts in her face split like bad seams and blood gushed. Something dark and wet spread in tiny streams from beneath the human's head, slicking the pavement and the dark, frizzy curls.
Snarling under his breath about mortals and the rules of Faerie, the Silver Lance hoisted Dylan into his arms and began to run.
Nearly scalding wetness dripped steadily down his arm from the gash on the back of the mortal's head. Her breathing was wet and ragged. A tiny trickle of blood stained the corner of her mouth. With a muttered oath, the Elf prince ran faster. His feet pounded through the subway tunnels. His breath dragged into his lungs. He was not quite as well as he had thought, he realized, as his calf began to burn, his shoulder to ache. Clenching his teeth against the pain in his shoulder from holding the bleeding human, the Crown Prince raced down the tunnels until...
"Nuada!"
Only a thousand years of military training kept the Elf from stopping at the sound of his name. Instead, he kept going. If Eammon saw him with Dylan in his arms and realized what she was... he did not have time to think about the consequences.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Two pairs of booted feet slapped the pavement. Harsh panting snarled at his back. With a curse, Nuada hefted the barely conscious mortal and ran as fast as he could. His legs ached, his lungs burned. A stitch began creeping through his side. A stabbing pain lanced through his ankle. What had the human told him? Without proper rest and time to heal, he might do his leg serious injury, was that not it?
"Silverlance, I see you there with your human pet!" Eammon's hard voice raged behind him. "I see you with your whore!"
Nuada's blood turned to ice in his veins. He had two choices: turn around, dump Dylan, and kill Eammon now; or he could keep running and save his savior's life. If not for the human in his arms, he would most likely be dead now. And if he stopped to take on the Elf behind him, the mortal woman might die before Eamonn could be defeated.
"Come back, Silverlance! Face me like a true warrior! Coward! Coward who ruts with mortals! Turn and face me, traitorous coward!" Eammon called.
Rage surged through the Elf warrior and he snarled his fury, but he did not turn around. He only ran onward, out of the abandoned subway tunnels and into the dark alleys of the human city above.
The Elf Prince of Bethmoora growled as he jogged through the alleys of New York City. His feet led him through twists and turns of darkness. He skirted the pools of amber light from street lamps, ran through the gloaming shadows, until he found himself hidden in the dark. Golden eyes like a beast's watched the humans in their white coats and many-colored medical scrubs scuttling back and forth. Nuada's eyes cut to the lit up sign overhead:
Saint Vincent's Hospital, Women's Center.
The prince glanced down at Dylan, who gnawed her lip in an effort to keep silent. Her eyes were sunk into dark, violet shadows in her waxy face. The white flesh against the black bruise on her face told him the cracked cheekbone had returned. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. Pain glinted in her eyes like bright stars, cold and far away. Pity tinged Nuada's expression as he scanned her face and felt the iron-laced blood running down his arms and chest from her injuries. Would she survive this? Or would he be abandoning her to death? To avoid that death, he had kept running in the face of Eammon's insults. Kept running, until he made it to the surface. Would she die now, despite that?
"Thank you, Your Highness," Dylan whispered, blinking sleepily up at him. Her vision was beginning to go all sparkly. She stared at the Elf holding her like a child, wondering why he hesitated. All he had to do was drop her off and she'd be out of his hair forever. Why did he look so worried?
"Dylan..." He began.
"I won't... tell anyone," she promised, with a flash of sudden insight. If she'd been any less exhausted and in pain, the mortal woman might have been a tad pissed off. Hadn't she proved herself enough to this prince already? But then again, she knew that the fey never trusted humans, and that it wasn't anything personal. "I promise, Nuada... I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, that upon pain of death, I will never willingly reveal you or your kind to your enemies. I swear, also, that... I will do what I have always... done - my best - to care for any Fae... I come across. Don't worry about that."
The Elf almost felt ashamed again.
Almost.
For a long moment, there was silence between them. Glacial eyes scanned Dylan's ashen face. Finally, all he said was, "I shall hold you to that."
"Goodbye, Your Highness. Please... please take care of yourself," the mortal mumbled, her eyes already turning upwards in the slide into unconsciousness.
The prince sprinted to an empty gurney. He could hear the human healers talking about a "motor accident" and switching out equipment, but he ignored their talk and laid the bleeding, battered human on the white bed. Scanning the sienna-tinged night around him, he spotted a few of the human healers heading toward him swiftly. They would reach him in less than a minute. They could not see him, shrouded as he was in darkness – only the quiet form on the gurney.
"Farewell, Dylan Myers," the Elf prince murmured, and slipped into the dark.
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At two o'clock in the morning, almost ninety days since his sister's disappearance in the middle of the December night, John Myers' cell phone shrilled in the dark, wrenching the government agent from his troubled sleep. He bolted upright with a jerk. Scrambling to turn off the alarm that wasn't there, he tumbled off the bed and crashed to the floor. He finally managed to catch the lamp chain and yank it on. Where was his phone?
Under the bed! Grumbling under his breath, the young agent snagged the obnoxious phone and managed to answer it on the sixth ring, right before it went to voice mail.
"Myers' residence, John speaking."
For a moment, there was only the tinny sound of someone's voice coming through the speaker on his cell. John sat in stunned silence. It took him several throat clearings to ask, in a choked voice, "You found her? Is she all right?" He cleared his throat again. "Yes, I'll be right down. Yes. Gimme twenty minutes."
He hung up on the receptionist at Saint Vincent's and ran to stuff his feet into his running shoes and grab his wallet and car keys off the table by the front door of his apartment. He didn't care that he was only wearing his baggy, red Nintendo pajama bottoms and his Invader Zim t-shirt. So he was a nerd loser with bed hair. So what? Somehow, miraculously, his twin sister had popped up on a gurney outside of the Women's Center at the hospital after being missing for almost three months.
As John scurried out of his apartment toward the building parking lot, he punched his fist into the air and then hastily dialed his Uncle Thaddeus.
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Wink had begun to nod off in his large, bronze chair when the sound of leather boots treading on stone brought him fully awake again. Lurching to his feet, the troll peered into the darkness of the corridor leading from the crown prince's chambers to the rest of the subway.
"It is I, my friend," a familiar voice called. Wink relaxed when the pale Elf prince strode into the lair, only to stiffen again in shock at the sight and stink of human blood drying on the Elf's skin. "Do not fear," Nuada added. "I have not been in battle. I've rid myself of the mortal woman." Seeing the dawning anger on the troll's face, the prince added, "I took her to the nearest mortal hospital. When I brought her out of the sanctuary her wounds reappeared. I'd suspected they might do so. Carrying her brought me into contact with her blood." Now Nuada sighed, a sound of utter weariness. "Scarcely can I stand the feel of it against my skin. I must bathe."
"Of course, Your Highness," Wink said, but Nuada did not wait for the troll to move, merely strode past him. Was the prince limping? And why did his shoulders slump so, as if he carried the weight of the world upon them?
Nuada would have enjoyed a shower – one of the enchantments built into his various chambers scattered throughout the New York Underground created many beautiful, cascading waterfalls in the bathing chambers, and he could use magic to alter the temperature of some. Others had been created to simulate nature. These were bracingly cold, and fish swam in the pools the waterfalls splashed down into. But the current lair only possessed the latter. The blond warrior knew his aching muscles would not appreciate the chilly water.
The Elf prince slid into steaming water in a bathtub of black marble studded with tiny diamonds. Black marble walls loomed above him. Even the ceiling was made of the smooth, dark stone. And everywhere, tiny diamond chips lit from within by magic sparkled and danced, as if tiny stars glittered against the black velvet night. In the crystal-clear water, with a few black candles' flames burning like small suns, it was as if the warrior floated amidst the heavens.
Would the human survive? Nuada did not know. Without the healing magic of the sanctuary, she would have died that first night, even if he had been in any shape to see to her wounds. He was no healer, no sorcerer. He was a warrior and a prince first, a craftsman second. He understood magic, could use much of it himself. He knew a bit of soothing magic and some very basic flesh-shaping... but he did not know how to heal others of such wounds as the ones Dylan had suffered. Perhaps he might send a healer to her this night at the human hospital, one skilled enough to work the more powerful healing magics despite the poisonous metals and chemicals in the place. Surely he knew such a healer.
What am I thinking? He demanded suddenly when he realized where his thoughts had gone. What in the name of the gods is the matter with me? Thinking of sending one of my people into danger to help a human.
But not just any human. This human had suffered so much when she had done nothing but try to help his kind. Surely... but no. No, she was still just a human. There was nothing special about her, other than her care of the Wee Folk. Others over the centuries had done the same, though fewer and fewer as the years wore on. Still, it was nothing new.
Yet such care she has taken... and such a price she has paid...
Well, it was only what mortals owed the Folk anyway. After what humans had done to the world, raping it of life and resources and beauty, ruining the earth itself so that none could survive easily there, they owed the Bright Ones much recompense for the damage done. Wars fought, countries ravaged, men slaughtered, women raped, children butchered, poisons spread. So the human woman understood the debt owed to the Fair Ones. All well and good, then. She knew her place. Mayhap she would teach that place to others.
I hope, he thought, surprising himself a little, that she survives this night, and many others, that she may do so. And so that she may keep the vow she gave me, to care for my people. We need such caretakers... for now.
And then he truly shocked himself by thinking, Don't die, Dylan. Please.
.
She spent almost three weeks in the hospital. The first night was touch and go – she'd needed two blood transfusions – but by the next morning she'd been stable. They offered to fix her face – pro bono, apparently – but she refused. The human woman had never been vain, and besides, she simply wanted to get out of the hospital that stank of disinfectant and whispered of old memories, and get back to her cottage as quickly as possible. Get back so she could hide.
Because of the sanctuary's magic, her injuries had mostly healed before reappearing. That healing made it look as if she'd been attacked, allowed to heal, and then attacked again. Since there was no way to explain that to modern medical science, Dylan didn't bother.
In the eighteen days spent trapped at the Women's Center, Dylan probably slept an average of three hours a night after that first horrible ten hours of morphine-induced oblivion. Three hours was barely long enough to pass into REM sleep for a few brief moments before being jerked back out by the throat from the throes of hellish nightmares. Always she dreamed of the men, the ones Nuada had called "human wolves." Dreamed they rose up from the dead, torn and bloody, the decapitated one still headless. They never stopped trying to reach her, trying to pin her to the cold, cutting concrete and hurt her again. John slipped her Pepsi to help keep her awake. Sat with her those rare times she managed to sleep. Made sure the lights were bright and that he could comfort without scaring her when she woke in a cold sweat, her throat raw from choking on her screams.
Sometimes Anya and Joyce visited, but only briefly. She knew they were busy with their own lives and didn't even live in the city. Cards and flowers came from work, from the kids in the Nursery class she taught at church, from her special patients who also possessed the Sight, and from Donovan and Peabody. From Ariel, her secretary. From Kate, the changeling child whose sister Kaye was Dylan's friend and former boss. From Peri and Bean, the sidhe mother and son who lived near Dylan's cottage. From Joseph Pipkin and his group. Even from Doctor Hollis up in Psychiatrics, whom she'd gone to med school with. The flowers helped combat the noxious smells of latex and disinfectant with the perfume of lilies and roses.
Just like Nuada's sanctuary, Dylan thought, and felt a measure of peace, and a sharp stab of grief. Had she made a mistake, leaving that place of blessed safety? Should she have stayed? Stayed, where she would always be safe, where nothing could ever hurt her? Where Nuada would protect her? I wish I could see him again, she thought. Just once. I... I miss him.
But of course, he never came.
Her sisters visited, though. Once, Dylan awoke from a nightmare of corpses ripping at her red satin dress, to see Petra. Petra, usually so cool and reserved, clutching one of Dylan's hands between hers until it almost hurt. Silvery blue eyes met hazel eyes filled with worry. A smile winged between the youngest Myers sister and the eldest. The nine Myers children rarely got along, but Dylan was glad to see her big sister at her bedside. They'd probably end up shrieking at each other like rabid cats a month from now, but it didn't matter. She drifted off again to the sound of the forty-plus woman humming "Lullaby for a Stormy Night."
Once, the eleventh day spent behind glass walls and flimsy, white curtains, barred by the silvery chrome rails around her hospital bed, she'd slept for a full ten hours, her body beaten into exhaustion from lack of sleep, pain medication, and her injuries. She'd dreamed of the men, dreamed of being chased through Central Park by wolves, heart pounding and screams trapped in her throat, rose thorns slicing into the exposed flesh of her arms and legs as she ran... and of being rescued by a huge, white lion with black-rimmed, familiar golden eyes.
After that, she managed to get five or six hours of sleep instead of only three. Sometimes she dreamed of the lion, and sometimes she dreamed of a huge, ivory-furred hound with bronze eyes that loped at her side and bared its teeth at the shambling demons in her nightmares. But she always woke exhausted despite the sleep.
She also got a bouquet of neon-bright, rainbow-colored carnations wrapped in crinkly, tacky pink foil. Cheap, like the ones the grocery stores sold for Mother's Day. Well, it was nearly the end of February - probably a Valentine's Day leftover. Attached to the bouquet was a card that read "Get Well Soon" in sparkly pink letters on one side, surrounded by hearts. The words We fixed your problem in really crappy handwriting were scribbled on the other side. Dylan knew who it was from - Tito, one of her former patients, and the leader of the Rojos. Which meant the attack hadn't been sanctioned. She didn't have to worry about being attacked by them again.
That didn't really make her feel any better.
.
Lt. Charlotte Peabody came to see her the same day the flowers from Tito arrived. The NYPD lieutenant took a chair at Dylan's bedside and propped her elbows on her knees. Moonlit blue eyes met eyes the color of autumn leaves. Peabody didn't speak. Just waited.
"I can't tell you what happened, Charlie," Dylan murmured.
"Why not? If Tito set it up, hon, you've gotta-"
"He didn't," the psychiatrist interrupted, eyeing the riot of rainbow carnations with mild dislike. "I thought at first he did, but he didn't. It wasn't sanctioned, and he took care of it himself. You know how Tito and the other leaders feel about me and the others I work with. Tito wouldn't have done this to me."
"Then who did?"
Dylan pushed at her hair and tried to only think about the tangles and knots in it, not about what she had to say to one of her oldest friends. She had been young - twenty-one and in her final year of undergrad - when for her field studies, they'd paired up a young would-be psychiatrist with a young police officer and her partner to give both women some hands-on experience with the kids on the streets. One night - one awful, horrible night of pain and grief and coming too late to save a child - had cemented mutual respect and affection into a lasting friendship. And now that friendship was about to be tested.
"Members of the Rojos," she told her friend. "Not sent by Tito. It was because I got Lisa into counseling and she decided not to join up. Someone took offense, rallied the Reds and sent them after me. They're..." Dead, she was about to say, but stopped. Peabody was a cop. How to explain this without dividing her friend's loyalties? "Do you trust me, Charlie?"
The psychiatrist never called the police lieutenant "Charlie," unless things were deadly serious.
There was no hesitation. Eight years of friendship and shared experience had Peabody saying, "Of course."
"Then..." She swallowed hard. Tried to block out the memory of screams and the glottal, wet sounds of men dying under a golem's rage. Fae justice. She knew it very well. Instead she focused on the memory of feral gold eyes and the sound of Elven silver singing through the air as Nuada trained. "Trust me when I say that everyone who should be punished... everyone who's responsible... they've been taken care of. I can't tell you how. I can't, Charlie, I'm sorry for that. But no one is being put in danger by this. Those men will never hurt anyone again. I can promise you that."
"Where have you been the last three months?"
"I can't tell you."
"Dylan-"
Blue eyes flashed as she struggled to sit up and look her friend dead in the eye. "Charlie, I can't tell you. I won't tell you. Okay? I've been somewhere safe and the person there protected me and when I got hurt again they took me to the hospital. That's all I can tell you. Please don't press me. I cannot tell you anymore than that. Please, Charlie. Please."
After a long, long moment, Peabody took Dylan's hand. Squeezed gently. "Do you remember the night you were brought in to talk to that girl? The streetwalker with the rainbow hair, d'you remember? Stormy, I think her name was. Two years ago. She'd killed a man. Shot him."
Dread and sorrow was a cold knot in Dylan's stomach. Where was Peabody going with this? "I remember."
"She got off on self-defense, do you remember? Because when you asked her why she'd shot the guy, she pulled out a picture of a little boy; the one they found at the crime scene, hiding behind the couch in her apartment. He was maybe four years old. Five at the most. And she looked us both in the eye and said, 'I had to protect someone.' You remember that?"
I have to protect someone, too, Dylan thought. Glacial topaz eyes and a prince's pride, a warrior's honor and a male's snarly stubbornness. Promises given and received on a gurney outside of Saint Vincent's Women's Center. I have to protect Nuada. I promised him.
"I remember."
Starry blue locked with tawny autumn. They both remembered. They both understood that sometimes there was the letter of the law... and sometimes there was the spirit of it. And Peabody remembered that Dylan understood not only that there was both, but also when to trust in one, and when to trust in the other. So the lieutenant just squeezed her friend's hand again and left to make her report.
.
Finally they let her go after giving her the business cards of a very good trauma counselor and a five-star plastic surgeon. The minute her brother helped her into his car, she ripped both cards in half and tossed them into the plastic bag he kept hooked around his gear-shift for trash.
"You don't need a freaking plastic surgeon, anyway," John muttered as he pulled into the glacier-slow traffic. "You've never looked more beautiful."
"Makes me wonder what you thought about how I looked before," Dylan replied dryly, staring out the car window at the city. So much violence in that city. She knew that. Knew that monsters of all shapes and sizes prowled those lonely but never-empty streets. Monsters both human and Fae. Evil that preyed on children, on women, on men. That evil had finally managed to catch her in its sick grip again. She'd been lucky to escape. If it caught her, just one more time... would she be able to get away again? Would there be an Elf prince to save her again?
"I always felt lucky that the prettiest of my eight sisters happened to be my twin," John said with a self-deprecating shrug. "Always had a positive effect on my self-esteem. You're going to LDS Family Services for counseling, though, right?"
She nodded. "Yeah, it's the best. I'll make an appointment sometime in the next couple weeks."
"Any plans to go back to work? I was thinking in a month or two... unless that's too soon," he added, glancing at her. The government agent couldn't gauge his sister's expression, and he wasn't picking up anything from her with the strange, empathic bond they shared. It was nothing remarkable – sometimes he just knew things about her. Once she'd cracked her skull on the jungle gym in kindergarten, and he'd gotten a splitting headache, even though he'd been on the other side of their school. Another time he'd been about to get a swirly from a local school bully, and six-year-old Dylan had known something was wrong even though the teachers kept telling her that he'd only gone to the bathroom and he'd be back soon. But now...
"I was thinking of going into work the day after tomorrow," she replied, though the thought filled her with something like sick dread. At his look, she added, "Tomorrow's Sunday."
"Right, right." But the half-smile curling the corner of her mouth eased some of his tension.
.
Dylan felt safe in church – up to a point – because of the crowds. Because of the soothing balm of the music. And because she worked with the little children for all but the very first hour. No one could hurt her, could get close enough to hurt her, in the church building. She even managed to relax enough to visit with some of her casual friends - Sister Chapman and Sister Lee. But outside of church, safety was a relative term.
She never did get around to setting up that therapy appointment. Every time she thought to do it, the sudden slicing fear sent her racing to her room, where she'd curl up under her blankets and shiver, tears scalding her cheeks. She always tried to recapture that sense of safety from the underground sanctuary. It never came back.
Eventually John did it for her. Visiting with the therapist at LDS Family Services should have terrified her, since Brother Kent was a man, but the moment she walked in, she'd felt almost safe. Maybe because she knew this man – he went to her church. She'd babysat his children.
But there was still that almost.
Work was easy, however, because there were three armed security guards outside her office at all times. She worked with a lot of high-risk teens, after all. She'd gone to undergrad school with two of the security guards – a burly woman named Natasha, built like a football player, and a former female boxer named Joyce. The third, a young man from her church ward named Scott, was small enough that Dylan could even smile and wave to him when she came into work in the mornings – though only when Natasha and Joyce were there. Her personal secretary, Ariel, also had training as a kickboxer, and acted as Dylan's "bodyguard" when they were together: another security blanket.
As the months dragged by and the mortal woman struggled to pull the pieces of her life back together – she started going to women's self-defense classes, and even went back to attending the medieval-style faires often held in Central Park – things began to return slightly to normal for her. She spent time with her friends - both human and Fae - and worked with her Sight kids. Babysat for Peri and Kaye. Practiced hymns on the piano and, when she had an hour to herself, sometimes just let her fingers glide over the keys and let emotion dictate what sound came out. She couldn't read music very well or play more than one note at a time, but the structure-less music helped with the fear a little. Working in the garden, mingling with the fae at the Floating Night Market when called by need or friendship to one of the Shining Ones.
The fear was an ever-present shadow in her life... but with the things she learned in therapy, she was ever so slowly learning to work around that fear. Faith had helped her maintain her sanity in the past. Faith, and God, and her twin brother. Those things helped her now.
And always she thought of Nuada, longed for the peace of the sanctuary, and strove to keep the promise she had made to him.
.
Once, she saw him. Or thought she did. At the Midsummer Faire, with Joyce and another of her casual friends, Anya. The world was kissed by the gloaming, and she was reminded of the almost-blueness of Nuada's skin under the decrepit fluorescents of the subway tunnels. Reminded of the fiery gold of his eyes when she'd looked at the burnished light of the sun's last caress of the horizon. Then a strange warmth bloomed in her chest. A tingle of awareness at the nape of her neck. Her eyes flicked to the trees.
Moon-white skin. Eyes like molten gold set in pitch darkness. Hair the color of spun starlight. The swirling silvery mist of barely-there glamor hiding him from most human sight, and Sight. But not her Sight. Recognition hit her hard in the chest and she gasped. The fear, the constant gnawing fear that was always kept banked but never went away, suddenly receded. He was right there. Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance. The Elf that had saved her life in so many ways.
She wanted to break away from the humans milling around the faire. Slide between the twilit trees and run into the woods to find him. To talk to him, ask him what he was doing so close to mortals, make sure he was taking care of himself. See for herself if that strained weariness was still in those feral eyes. After all, it had been more than four months since she'd seen him.
"Dylan! Come on! You don't wanna miss this!"
Startled, she glanced over her shoulder toward Anya and Joice, who were waving her over. Realizing she'd let Nuada out of her sight - and all he needs is a split second to completely disappear, Dylan thought with what might have been a sizzle of panic - she whirled back around to scan the trees.
Nothing. Gone. No amber eyes that had seen countless centuries. No shadowed mouth or armor like the darkness made tangible. Only empty woods.
"Darn it, Anya, you owe me for this," she muttered. Tried to ignore the shards of disappointment and sorrow scraping inside her chest. Instead, she turned to her friends again and went back to the faire.
Yet despite the testament of her eyes - which, gifted by Sight and blessed by a fear-darrig's favor, should have been able to find Nuada amidst the glamor, if the Elf prince remained to be seen at all - Dylan couldn't ignore the feeling that someone was watching her. Studying her. The odd thing about that was that the sensation didn't frighten her a bit.
In fact, the strange sense of safety she'd felt the moment she'd recognized the prince didn't go away for the rest of the evening.
.
New York City in late June was not as dark as the Elf prince would have preferred. Where the light of a thousand diamond stars once lit up the night with a gentle ambiance, now the garish burning of the humans' street lamps filled the dark. Headlights slashed the midnight blackness. Billboards and advertisements and all sorts of neon and electric lights drove away the fearsome night that the humans fear. A dark hatred filled Nuada's heart as the poisonous light of a passing Chevy truck washed over him. This was what mankind had done to everything they touched – corrupted it, erasing the natural beauty of it. Now Nuada hid in the alleyway, full of garbage and debris, seething with rage. Only the rats, cockroaches, and stray cats dared to approach the predatory Elf.
With a gentility never shown to the cruel mortals he encountered, the blond warrior reached down and scratched behind one black kitten's ears. The little tom cat rubbed against his knee-high leather boot, purring.
What was the Elf prince doing here, above ground, in the city full of foul, pitiful humans and their machines? Even as he stroked the rumbling, purring beast, Nuada asked himself that very question. He had a destination in mind – Of course he did. It would have been foolish to venture into the world of his enemies without a plan of some sort – but was it worth it?
Sighing, Nuada slipped deeper into the welcoming shadows, ears pricked and eyes peeled, on the alert for any potential encounters with the humans. Refusing to argue with himself over his decision, the Elf walked onward, long strides towards the edges of the city, where the little parks dotted the landscape. Here the humans had shoved the natural world to the edges of their so-called civilizations, and it was there, nestled among these tiny green oasis, that he intended to go. And when he finally reached that place, he sighed again.
This is ridiculous, he thought. I am not here to see her. Why should I hesitate? I wish only to test her word.
The little, old-fashioned house was quaint and almost sickeningly sweet. Carved stone blocks, whitewashed wood and ceramic shingles made up the walls and the roof. Vernal ivy, climbing roses of every color, pale purple wisteria, and white honeysuckle heavy with syrup snaked up the walls, clinging like small children to their mother's skirt. Young fruit and elder trees stood guard at the garden gate and along the walls. Sweet fruit and fragrant flowers and spicy herbs ran wild and happy along the dark, rich soil of the garden. As soon as the Elf crossed through the little white wood and stone gate, the sweet air surrounded him, drowning out the stench of oil, steel, and pain from the vile human city.
In front of the door – a thick slab of granite on bronze hinges with a brass handle – on the stone step sat a little silver bowl filled with creamy milk. Beside it on a ceramic plate lay a tiny loaf of fresh, brown bread studded with nuts and dried fruit. The city pigeons and even the stray cats had already found the food, but others had found the offering as well. Exclaiming to each other in their lilting, chirping language, several young piskeys and a few homeless brownies scooped up tiny handfuls of the milk and sipped it daintily, not letting even the tiniest drop spill from their fingers.
What kind of human left gifts to the Wee Folk in this day and age? And in real silver and porcelain vessels, to avoid any possible contact with the burning lead and iron or noxious plastic that infiltrated nearly every part of the human cities? For some, like the brownies and piskeys, even touching those human metals could leave scorching burns or make the tiny fae ill. Other, stronger faeries could handle it, but were made uncomfortable. Still others merely found the contamination inconvenient. Only the rare bogle - a redcap or a dwarf - or a fae royal remained unaffected by iron and lead.
At his feet, two of his own piskeys – Iseult and Culhwch – scurried forward and began peering in the large, arching window beside the front door. As soon as a shiver ran up Culhwch's spine, Nuada knew something was amiss. He ran to their side in an instant, all doubts and irritation vanished like evanescent mist, and gazed beyond the transparent, un-curtained panes of glass... to the leanashe looming like a whorish demon over Dylan and the tiny, bleeding beast in her arms.
Inside the prince, a struggle began.
A leanashe attacks a mortal, and what was he supposed to do? He wondered, but already knew the answer: nothing. The humans were the enemies of all the Fey races. The seductive faery woman was probably avenging a grievance. The leanashe were jealous, easily provoked. Someone like Dylan, knowing all she knew of the Pobel Vean, should have considered this. As wise in the ways of Faerie as the mortal woman claimed to be, no action of hers should have been able to anger one of his people.
The human was of course to blame.
But Dylan... but she...
The mortal who had tended his wounds, nearly killing herself more than once to save his life, now lay in the grasp of a painful and brutal death. This human had stitched his wounds while she bled nearly to death, ignoring her own pain to treat him. She had braved his wrath to care for the infection brought on by lead- and iron-poisoning, despite his cruel attitude and cold manners. She had even cleaned his sanctuary, ridding it of the stink of her iron-laced blood staining the stone floor. As a child, Dylan had saved one of his people, doing what even some adults would consider too much for someone older and stronger than she had been then. And this human woman had been incarcerated and tortured at the behest of her own flesh and blood for her belief in and protectiveness towards the court of Bethmoora and others like it.
Was she truly to blame for the leanashe's wrath?
For the first time in his life, Prince Nuada, son of King Balor, could not decide what to do. If he allowed the human to be slain by this fey creature, it was no more than a human deserves. But not this human. Not Dylan, who had a heart of the Old World, without the predatory sins of most of the Children of Mud.
Yet he could not attack a faery creature to save a mortal unless he knew for certain the faery was in the wrong. It was a capital offense, and went against everything Nuada believed in. The humans were the enemy of the Faerie people.
But to let Dylan die, when he could have saved her, after all that had happened... his honor rebelled.
A prince without personal honor cannot hope to be an honorable ruler to his people, and a dishonorable prince brings shame to his kingdom.
Dylan's words floated back to him from the dregs of his memory, and the Prince of Bethmoora clenched his teeth and tightened his hand into a fist to keep from drawing his lance. He was a Child of the Earth, and a prince. If he used his power, he could enter this dwelling without invitation and save Dylan from the enraged creature trying to murder her. Then the leanashe would stop this stupid assault and he could resolve the problem.
With a muttered "oscailte," a Gaelic word of opening, and a swift kick to the door, the little stone slab slammed inward, startling the inhabitants within the cottage. The tiny, bleeding beast mewed plaintively. The mortal's eyes filled with a faint glimmer of hope... and a nearly overwhelming fear. As for the leanashe...
With a shrieking cry, the pale vengeful fey woman launched herself at Nuada, claws extended, desperate to gouge out his eyes and pierce his heart.
"Prince Nuada!"
He was, first and foremost, a warrior, and he was under attack. Nothing could ever change who and what he was. Nothing could ever even hope to do so. Thus, when the leanashe launched herself away from the mortal woman on the floor towards the son of the One-Armed King of Elfland, Nuada did not even have to think about what to do. He merely reacted.
In a flash, his pale hand gripped the dark hilt of his lance. He ripped it from the scabbard on his back and unsheathed the glinting blade of star-bright metal. Twirling the pole weapon over his head, he dipped the spear tip and sliced the fey woman's shoulder as he stepped out of the way of her mad charge. The enraged creature tripped and stumbled. Turning around, her dilated sea-green eyes raked the room for the Elf known as Silverlance. When they clapped on Nuada's wary, tense form, she lunged for him again.
"Stop!" Dylan's voice was tight with fear. It hauled on Nuada's focus, trying to realign it so that his attention was riveted on the terrified mortal. The human woman called to the furious leanashe, "He's the prince of Bethmoora! Stop! Don't hurt him!"
"Shut up, you human filth! I knew my lord was right! This... this creature is a traitor to the denizens of twilight. His blood is mine!" The fey woman shrieked the word "mine" and launched herself like a hissing, spitting wildcat at the fey prince. Dodging, he brought up his lance and sliced the back of the creature's thigh, cutting the hamstring. She collapsed to the floor, wailing. Rolling over, she struggled to push herself at least semi-upright.
In an instant, Nuada's boot pressed down hard between her breasts, shoving her to the floor, his spear at her throat. Iseult and Culhwch chittered at the enraged faery on the floor. The leanashe shrieked and hissed at Nuada, but he simply ignored her and turned to Dylan. When he saw the rock clenched in her upraised fist, he could not prevent the smirk from stealing over his mouth or his eyebrow from quirking. If humans were only as fast as Elves, the mortal might have managed to brain the faery woman with her stone before Nuada could've restrained her.
Nuada nodded to Dylan, who dropped the rock to the floor and scooped the bleeding beast – the Elf saw that it was a small mewing kitten, its eyes barely open for more than a week or two – into her arms.
"Are you injured?" Nuada demanded.
The human woman shrugged and said softly, "Nothing that won't heal in a couple of days. And Bat's fine. He tore out a couple of claws attacking... her," Dylan indicated the fey creature with a nod of her head. "That's why he's bleeding a bit. But they'll grow back. He's young and healthy. Are you hurt, Your Highness?" She added, scanning him. Her eyes skimmed him from head to foot, looking for any injury he might try to hide from her. But she saw nothing.
"I am unharmed. Now," Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance snarled, looking down at the leanashe. He had expected the mortal's inquiry into his status. So that she would have no excuse to henpeck him, he had done his best to remain unharmed. "You, wretch. Why have you attacked me? Twice this mortal identified me. You even acknowledged that you knew me. Why did you persist in your attack?"
The leanashe did her best to spit on his foot. Then she hawked a gob of thick, snotty saliva onto the polished wooden floor.
"How... why... ugh!" Dylan sputters. "Why do people do that? Now I have to wash that. It's probably acidic! What is your problem?"
"Prince Nuada is a traitor to Bethmoora and all the Twilight Kingdoms." To the Elf, she snarled, "I wanted to kill you and the creature you betray our kind with. How dare you take a mortal into your bed? It's no better than rutting with an animal!"
For a long, tense, still moment, the Elf warrior wondered what it would feel like to plunge his lance into the leanashe's belly and pin her to the floor like an insect, watching her writhe as she died. He, the Silver Lance, bed a human? Disgusting. Eyes of glacial bronze tinged blood-red with fury stabbed into the fey woman's face, trapping her gaze. The leanashe could see the hatred overflowing in Nuada's heart. Rage etched lines of darkness and death across his white face. Black lips like dead flesh pressed together, and the faery woman knew that the prince struggled against the vile words and curses waiting to gush forth. Fear slithered up her spine and into her belly. He would torture her if she pushed him further.
Torture her to death.
"Who has been saying these things?" The prince of Bethmoora demanded at last. Dylan shivered and held the tiny black kitten known as Bat a little tighter in her cupped hands. She had only heard Nuada speak so once before – to the men that had attacked and raped her. And they were all dead.
"That's a secret I shall take to the grave," the leanashe spat at him.
"Very well," the Silver Lance growled, and raised the black-handled spear high to plunge it into the faery creature. He began to thrust it downward, when –
"Nuada, no, please! Please!" Dylan cried.
The prince tensed, the spear halting less than a hair's breadth from the leanashe's chest. Snarling under his breath, Nuada slid his eyes – darkened by hate and rage to a nearly sanguine red – to glare at the mortal standing with a kitten in one hand, an upraised stone back in the other. How dare she? How dare she try to stop him from dealing out justice? From defending his honor? Fury simmered in his veins, infusing like poison into his body. His grip on the black-handled lance tightened until his knuckles were bleached to the color of bones. He would teach her. He would show this mortal that no human could command Nuada Silverlance-
"Please..." The mortal whispered, eyes beseeching. "Don't kill her. You can't."
"I can," Nuada growled through clenched teeth. "Can, and will. And if you stand in my way, then you will die as well."
"Fine," Dylan snapped, setting the kitten down behind her on the floor. Dropping the rock, she stepped as close to the Elf warrior as she dared with the leanashe still lying on her floor. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she couldn't. This was wrong. She could feel that, deep inside. If they did this, it would come back to bite them in the butt. So despite the fear, she forced herself to challenge the prince. "Then kill me. But that won't change the fact that killing her is wrong, Your Highness."
"She tried to kill you! Are you mad?"
"Maybe." The mortal crossed her arms over her chest. Inside, the world was screaming. She just wanted to run into her room and crawl into her closet and hide, but... but... "But shouldn't she be tried for her crime instead of just... just murdered?"
"It would not be murder, Dylan. It would be protecting ourselves. You are a human. In the eyes of the Fair Folk, she has committed no crime. In fact, by defending you, it is I who have committed the crime – fighting a fey in defense of a Child of Mud without proof that the faerie was in the wrong. They could drag me back from my exile to have me punished, perhaps even executed for such. Will you condemn me to that?"
The mortal locked eyes with the Elf prince for a long moment. In that instant, something was decided. Nuada nodded once, and Dylan turned to the leanashe pinned to the floor by Nuada's boot.
"Make a choice," Dylan said. She felt sick inside. What would the creature do? If she chose wrongly... what was the right thing to do? To kill, or not to kill? In battle, that choice was a clear one. But this wasn't battle. What was right? "Return to your master with a failure, but swearing on the living Darkness not to mention that the prince was here tonight, or die by the prince's hand."
The fey woman stared at the mortal in front of her, astonished and a little disturbed. This was the woman who, if her master was right, was the mistress of the crown prince. This mortal, who gave her the choice between a hard, brutal death and an easy one, though she did not know it. Hate and astonishment filled the leanashe's heart. But more than anything, hatred.
The leanashe made her choice.
Dylan closed her eyes until the fey was gone, and all that remained was Prince Nuada, watching her.
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